


First Blood

by carvedwhalebones (fuckyeahlucifersupernatural)



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Fencing, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-23 21:11:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13198644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural/pseuds/carvedwhalebones
Summary: The loss of Sam affected Nathan the most. Irritated, Rafe handled a grieving Nathan his own way.





	First Blood

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt(s):** “Nate and rafe bj ;)” + Fencing duel

_“I wonder what you're really afraid of. Not bullets or blood or broken bones... No, you get off on all this, don't you?”_ \- **Katherine Marlowe, Uncharted 3**

The loss of Sam had left Nathan’s tongue swollen with whiskey and tripping over his own feet. After Panama, whether out of pity or necessity, Nathan was allowed to stay in the Adler Manor. Nathan buried himself in the convenience of silk sheets, Sully’s name flashing on his cellphone gone unnoticed. Blueprints to St. Dismas’ Cathedral and the hollowed out cross remained untouched on the guest room’s desk. Empty bottles had been strategically placed to hide the map.

Impromptu meetings regarding Avery’s treasure were unproductive. The only headway made was on Rafe’s end. Rafe had begun efforts to purchase St. Dismas’ Cathedral, any and all seemingly good news answered by Nathan with a tired shrug and a version of: “It doesn’t matter. Sam is the only one who…” Each despondent response would leave Rafe thin lipped and shoulders bunched, a barbed reply curling behind his tongue.

Sam was always the focus and Nathan would stop looking at the nearest exit. His eyes would be on Rafe, waiting for the reminder or insult to leave his lips. It was clockwork the way Nathan would slip from morose to baring his teeth in offense at Rafe’s response. It never lasted long. A tossed swear, hands balled up into fists, and him stomping back to the guest room.

However, Nathan’s bag remained unpacked and Sully’s messages unread.

The mornings after Nathan had holed himself in the guest room, beyond a drunken stupor, until he’d heave into the toilet with a garbled apology, he would find Rafe quiet in the kitchen. There would be enough coffee for one, Rafe’s long fingers curled around a steaming mug. The amalgam of a splitting headache and the lingering sick wedged between his molars would leave Nathan temporarily immobile. They would remain mute, Nathan bound to slip out of the room when Rafe’s slurps would turn his fingers into fists.

A change in the routine occurred around the third week. Staff knocked at his door, his presence requested by Rafe.

Nathan responded to the request by burrowing himself deeper into the sheets.

He flinched when the door rattled violently against its frame.

“Get out. _Now_ ,” Rafe’s voice cut through. “Wear shoes,” he added in afterthought.

Rafe was, eventually, found on the lower levels of the manor, occupying the home gym. The room was expansive, towering walls mirrored at every twist and turn. Nathan caught sight of his greased locks and forehead in his reflection. He hastily wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. He looked slimmer, cheekbones more prominent, and eyes sunken. Both his reflection and himself shared a frown before looking away.

Rafe was pacing on long stretches of black mat with taped out boxes. His hair was pushed out of his face, stray locks tucked behind his ears. He was curiously adorned in a bleached white fencing uniform sans mask. A gloved hand was occupied with letting a blade sway lowly by his leg.

“I’m here because why?” Nathan cleared his throat. Rafe did not pause, continuing his easy pace up and down the mats.

“Your gear is on the chair over there. Put it on.”

The blade rose high in its swing and pointed toward Nathan’s left. Nathan turned and frowned at the sight of a matching uniform.

“I’m not in the mood.”

“I’m not asking, I’m telling.”

Nathan heaved out a sigh, shoulders shrugging at the younger male, “Well…tough.”

“Now, you see, that’s not fair,” Rafe started, his words always thicker on his tongue when monologuing, “it has been weeks, Nate. I like to think I’ve been more than accommodating with Samuel and…” He paused on the mat, blade bobbing near his ankle, eyes rolling. “This phase you’re going through,” Rafe settled with, pivoting on his heels and giving a cursory once over.

Nathan tilted his chin upward, jaw clenching. He felt that cool gaze catalogue every out of place hair, wrinkle, and obscure stain on his person.

“Now, you’re just wasting my time,” he finished matter-of-factly.

“My brother is dead,” Nathan gritted out, voice rising with bewilderment.

Rafe shrugged and motioned to the gear behind Nathan with his nose, “Put on the gear."

Nathan continued, raising his voice over Rafe’s, “Sorry I’m not getting over it fast enough for you.” His voice cracked. Nathan swore under his breath, turning so he was no longer facing Rafe.

“Apology accepted.”

This was Rafe slurping down his coffee, Nathan caught between alarmed and infuriated. His palms itched, fingers curling into them. A swear stayed trapped behind his teeth, stiffly turning to lea—

“Nate, see, we have a contract,” Rafe called out. Nathan stopped, heartbeat loud in his ears. “I help fund this expedition, you find Avery’s treasure, and we all get a slice of the pie. Problem is you can’t — ” he continued, abruptly taking a step forward with sword raised at eye level when Nathan began to open his mouth — “ _Ah, ah,_ let me finish, _Nate_. As I was saying, how many times have you told me that we can’t do shit because only Sam knows?” Rafe chuckled, shrugging his shoulders and lowering the blade, “Well, damn, Nathan, why the hell do I need you for?”

Nathan stilled, forehead creased, “You can’t cut me out of my own trip.”

“Sure I can,” Rafe returned with a smile, folding his hands in front of him, the dulled tip of the blade digging into the mat. “For example, if I, now, own Saint Dismas’ Cathedral and we are no longer partners… You see where this is going?”

“Screw you.”

“It’s just business,” Rafe drawled out, watching Nathan move further away. “You know, it’s too bad you’re not a functional alcoholic like your brother,” he goaded, Nathan coming to an abrupt halt before the door, “You might still be useful.”

Nathan, finally, went for the gear.

 

*******

Within five minutes, Nathan was exhausted. There was sweat trapped in his gloves and a sharp ache developing in his left calf. He had yet to hit Rafe. He was always a few steps ahead of Nathan, anticipating each lunge and swing. Each tap of the dull blade against his side, his temple, his back, his leg, his masked face, his throat, his chest… With each strike his swears morphed into unintelligible grunts and wet hisses.

“Color me surprised, but I thought you’d given up by now,” Rafe started up.

Nathan lunged, blade jabbing forward. Rafe sidestepped, his own blade striking his knee.

“Seeing that’s all you’ve been doing lately,” he continued. Nathan haphazardly swung at Rafe’s ankles, missing.

“Fuck.” Nathan took another swing, nearly dislodging Rafe’s blade from his hand. “You.”

“That’s the spirit,” Rafe dryly returned.

Rafe danced on the mat, his footwork measured and constant. He would feint movement in one direction, leaving Nathan stumbling after him. Nathan tried to save himself from tripping over his own feet. A foot pushed him behind his knee. He fell to the left, onto the mat. A blade tapped him on the shoulder.

“That’s a point.”

Nathan pushed himself onto his feet, lunging at the younger male. He expected him to feint, preparing to suddenly jerk himself to the opposite direction, but Rafe met his blade. Nathan parried, feeling each clash push him a step back. His blade ended up knocked out of his hand, the blunt tip of Rafe’s digging into his stomach.

“Point. Again.” 

His hands felt stiff and slick with sweat, curling and uncurling his fingers in relief. The borrowed gear and even his own jeans felt restrictive and tight, acutely aware of the heated tension that sat in his gut. With an irritated huff, Nathan pulled off his right glove. He wiped the sweat off his leg and stiffly retrieved his blade. Sword in hand, he rushed at Rafe, slashing downward. Rafe parried, sparks bursting from both blades as they scraped against the other. 

“Admit it, you need this,” Rafe commented. 

Nathan pulled back and swung harder, blades crossing violently. Rafe pushed back, Nathan stumbling back.

Rafe’s sword slapped at his, now, bare wrist, a pained hiss leaving him. His sword clattered onto the mat, only to be kicked to the side by Rafe. Wrist cradled, Nathan found himself forced to look upward when a blade’s dull tip wiggled its way into his neck. He felt the tip create pressure onto his Adam’s apple, cheeks beginning to burn.

“Ready to call it —” 

Nathan knocked aside the blade with his left arm, hand groping for Rafe’s right wrist. Awkwardly forced to lean forward, the older hunter rammed his fist into Rafe’s helmeted skull. He howled, blade clattering onto the floor and jerking out of his hold. His mask was askew on his skull, Rafe brusquely removing it. His hair stood in disarray, gloved hands groped at his face, hissing when a finger touched the left side of of his skull. 

Rafe pulled his hand away, glaring. 

He marched forward, hands balled into fists. Nathan expected the first swing, grabbing at his wrist, once more. He pulled him forward and rammed his masked head into Rafe’s. 

“Fuck!” Rafe staggered back, cradling his nose. He pulled his hand aside, nose dripping red and staining his glove. An irritated snarl left his lips, eyes finding Nathan as he removed his own helmet. Nathan drew first blood. 

Rafe charged forward, but Nathan was ready. One fast punch to Rafe’s, now, unprotected jaw had his head whipping back. He staggered back, cupping his chin. 

“I think that’s….two points on my end, right?” Nathan breathed, meeting Rafe’s unamused stare with a grin. 

It felt good. An intoxicating rush coursed through him as he watched blood slide down onto the younger male’s upper lip. It left his skin heated, tugging off the remaining glove he still had on. 

Without the comfort of the blades, Rafe lost his upright and cool demeanor. He was hunched forward, teeth barred. 

Rafe rushed forward. Nathan anticipated a punch, bending his knees. His body, instead, collided against his, knocking them both onto the map. Hands grabbed at him, fingers digging into his stomach and side as Rafe crawled on top of him. For an instant, their eyes met. Rafe was heaving on top of him, chest rising and falling, hair wildly askew.

The jab at his nose was sudden and abrupt. Nathan’s face scrunched up at the hit. 

“Point,” Rafe exhaled out.

Nathan snarled and pushed. With a grunt, he flipped Rafe onto his back. 

The coppery scent of blood was strong and intoxicating. Rafe’s nose was still bleeding sluggishly, staining his lips down to his chin. He began to struggle underneath him, arm stretched out and attempting to reach for his blade. Nathan grabbed at his wrist, pinning it to the mat. He allowed his weight to settle on Rafe’s waist, other hand reaching for Rafe’s freed arm. Rafe bucked his hips, squirming against both the mat and Nathan. Nathan hissed in surprise when hips rolled upward and left him reeling, heat shooting up his spine. 

Rafe did it again; Nathan tightened his grip on his wrist and bore down on Rafe’s hips.

Each rock and buck of his hips had Nathan grinding his teeth, lips pursed. Nathan remained, hands moved to pin Rafe’s wrists above his head. 

Rafe began to grin, a flash of white through the dark red coating his mouth. “You had me real good back then,” he began, blood seeping past his upper lip and beginning to stain his teeth. “All that…naive…moronic routine of yours. You like this,” he accused good-humoredly. 

Nathan tightened his grip on Rafe’s wrist. Rafe winced, but continued. 

“I bet,” he goaded, pausing to swallow the blood and spit collecting in the back of his mouth, “that’s the reason why you always volunteered to get in those fights to end up in solitary. Always insisted, am I right?” 

Nathan stayed silent, a muscle in his jaw beginning to twitch. 

Rafe took advantage and bucked his hips, Nathan’s grip on his wrists loosening. He scrambled out of his hold; Nathan let him. The younger of the two resettled himself on top, but sat on his thighs. 

“Am I wrong?” Rafe continued.

Shamelessly, gloved knuckles pressed into the inseam of his pants starting from lower thigh and moving upward. Nathan squirmed when a knuckle moved dangerously close to his crotch, a hand shooting out and grabbing Rafe’s wrist. He only held onto the wrist, breath suddenly loud to his own ears. A knuckle applied pressure to the inseam over his crotch. Nathan was already hard underneath his jeans. He refused to make eye contact when hips rose upward, pushing back into the pressure. 

Rafe chuckled, the sound dying down to a knowing hum. 

“Didn’t think so.” 

Nathan’s face was red, a shaky exhale of air passing through clenched teeth. The pressure against his groin left, Rafe’s hand gone. Nathan let go of the held wrist — 

 _“H-Hey, wait, what are you —?”_ Nathan’s hand scrambled back at the wrist, eyes on Rafe, bewildered. Rafe was picking at the button of his jeans, rolling his eyes at the protest. 

“Shut up,” he heaved back, irritated, dragging down Nathan’s zipper, “you’re more interesting like this.” 

Nathan watched, craning his neck, as Rafe partially wiggled part of his jeans down. A shaky sound left him at the relief of no longer having denim constricting him. He saw himself tented through his briefs, the red in his cheeks spreading down to his neck. Nathan’s head thudded back onto the mat when the heel of Rafe’s palm followed the outline of his cock. He closed his eyes, biting down a groan.

Rafe’s fingers curled around his cock through the fabric, squeezing. Rafe began to stroke him over his briefs, Nathan throwing his arm over his eyes. The movement stopped. Rafe tsked, pausing.

 “Now, Nate. That’s rude. Look at me.” 

Nathan exhaled, moving his arm. Rafe waited until Nathan was looking at him before moving again. His hands opened and closed uselessly by his sides, hips rising slightly to each upward stroke. He was aware of the wet fabric beginning to uncomfortably cling and rub against the tip of his cock. If Rafe had noticed, he didn’t acknowledge. His strokes remained languid and slow, never enough pressure or quick enough for Nathan’s liking. 

He began to squirm, a hand risking reaching out and finding Rafe’s knee. He squeezed it, only earning an expressionless stare.

“Rafe…” 

Rafe’s strokes turned slower, lingering near the wet patches of Nathan’s briefs. He’d let a thumb rub the wet fabric into Nathan’s cock. It wasn’t enough. Nathan’s breath turned laborious, desperately squeezing Rafe’s knee. 

“Come on.”

With brows raised, Rafe gave an expectant look. 

_“Please.”_

Rafe hummed, lips pulled into a thin-lipped smile, “Now was that so difficult?” 

He pulled down his briefs, Nathan’s hips rising to help. A gloved hand — still stained with Rafe’s blood — skated across the length of his cock. Rafe adjusted himself on top of his legs, letting his torso lean low, breath hitting his pubic bone. Without warning, Rafe dragged his tongue across him. A heady noise left Nathan, soon developing into a groan when Rafe noisily sucked on a patch of skin.

Rafe was a sight to behold, noise and mouth colored red from the now drying blood. He looked wild with his hair askew, hooded eyes regarding him cooly. Gloved fingers wrapped around the base of his cock, holding it upright. He made a show of dragging his tongue across the underside, a pitiful whine dragged out of Nate’s lips. His hips made an attempt to rise upward in encouragement. 

Nathan nearly choked on his own spit when Rafe slipped his cock into his mouth. He eased Nathan into his mouth, only stopping when lips met his curled fingers at the base. Rafe refused to wait for Nathan to adjust, taking on an easy pace. Nathan groaned, hypersensitive to the tongue pressing into the underside of his cock, creating a tight pressure. It forced the head of his cock to drag against the roof of Rafe’s mouth, rubbing against every ridge along the way. He was already close.

Rafe glanced up through his eyelashes, an obscene noise leaving his stuffed mouth as he swallowed down his own saliva. Nathan’s hand scrambled onto Rafe’s shoulder. He ignored the perturbed look shot his way when his hips rose too high, cock pushed further down Rafe’s throat. He felt his throat flutter and the instant vice grip around the intrusion. Rafe involuntarily swallowed around him, again, and Nathan mustered out a strangled sound in warning. He half expected Rafe to pull away, but he stayed, swallowing Nathan down. 

A soft sigh rattled out from his chest when Rafe, finally, pulled away from Nathan. He wetly slipped out of Rafe’s mouth, Nathan staring. They stayed there, watching the other. Rafe broke the spell by cracking his neck, beginning to stand.

“St. Dismas,” Nathan croaked out. It was all he managed, but he hoped it would be enough. 

Rafe paused and appeared to understand, a smirk tugging on the corner of his mouth.

“Welcome back, Nate.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> _Love it? Hate it? Tell me in a review!_


End file.
